A YEAR OF SOMETHING NEW

 “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing!  . . .” (Isaiah 43:18-19 NIV)  This quote in a 2-inch square frame on Matthew and Helen’s nightstand caught my attention.  How apropos for the start of the new year.

What do you forget?  When one gets to be my age, forgetfulness is quite a curse.  I go into a room intending to do something or to get something and as I get there, I forget what it was I went there for.  I would sometimes be in the middle of saying something but then be stopped dead in my tracks because I can’t remember the word I wanted to say.  But there is a forgetfulness I’ve always had.  I have never been good with numbers and so it has been difficult for me to remember phone numbers, plate licenses or even my own social security number.  I have a hard time remembering the ages of my two children though I was certainly present when they were born.  We were celebrating Matthew’s birthday on the wrong day until three years into his life I accidentally came across his birth certificate in my files and found out my mistake!  Then there is the little matter of my wedding anniversary.  For years, Don and I would argue as to the date when we were married. 

So, yes, I have a difficult time remembering some things but there are things that are hard for me to forget.  There is a certain fast foods place that I have never gone to for the last 40+ years because I remember when they were found out to have served horsemeat one year when beef prices went sky high.  I could not forgive them and could not forget what they’ve done.  There are other things that are hard for me to forget.  Things like hurt, pain, offenses either committed against me or those I have committed on others.   It is also hard to forget some of the little successes I’ve had in life.  I tend to dwell on these, trying to affirm my self-worth to myself and getting pretty close to taking credit for some things that I have been able to do not because of my abilities but because of God’s grace and blessing.  There are things that have to be remembered but there are those that are best forgotten, or not dwelt upon. 

Mulling over this quote from Isaiah, I decided to find out more of the context in which it was said. Isaiah lived and prophesied to the nation of Israel 700 years before Christ. In the first 40 chapters of his book he wrote about what was coming upon the nation because of their rebellion against God’s ways.  But then Chapter 41 and onwards, he spoke of what their God would do for them when they turn back to Him.  In this quote he tells them not to remember the pain and suffering that they would have to endure because their God was going to do a new thing for them as He takes them out of Babylon.  He would do a new thing!

Each new year for me is a gateway to new adventures.  It is a blank page that waits to be written on.  My past year had some joys, excitement, some sadness, losses of family and some close friends written on it.  But there were also some fresh adventures – a part time job, meeting new friends, a month-long visit from my sisters, and a lot of new things to learn.  I remember one particular year when I had a lot of pain and hurt and it was difficult to move on with life.  It was only by God’s grace that I was able to put it behind me.  At such a time, the ability to forget the hurt was a real gift and the healing began.

How has 2013 been for you?  Have you had hurts, losses, pain, failures?   Can we put them in the past?  They belong to 2013.  2014 is a NEW year.  This can be a year of something new.

TWO VERY DIFFERENT BIRTHS (A Christmas Morning Rambling)

THE REASON FOR THE SEASON

The Doctor's Announcement

 “You are two months pregnant!” Such was the pronouncement from the Indonesian doctor that examined me.

Don and I were thrilled. We had been married three years. I was already a few years past my 30th birthday and had fears that we might not have natural children.  We had talked about adoption.

The news about the coming baby got quickly bruited about among the Reyes and Major families. Letters flew across the ocean rejoicing at this coming event. There was a bit of concern, though, we were thousands of miles away in Indonesia, a foreign country.  How do we do this?

We had to find a doctor and a hospital that we could trust. Having a first baby at my age was a definite concern. We’ve heard of Mongoloid and Down Syndrome babies born to older mothers. Most of our missionary friends would go to the American Baptist Hospital in Kediri for their health issues. This was about a day’s bus travel from Surakarta where we lived. We decided to check it out.

The Baptist Hospital in Kediri

Dr. Kathleen C. Jones, Director of the hospital, was a kind, American missionary who had spent most of her working life in Indonesia. While waiting for her, we took in the physical condition of the facility. It was very well-kept, clean, with well-trimmed bushes and seemed like freshly painted buildings. The staff moved about with much efficiency and politeness.

As she took her seat across from me, Dr. Jones took my hand and said, “Let’s pray,” and she prayed for this coming baby. Wow, what an assurance of protection and care.

She told us things we were to expect, examined me and said the baby showed all signs of A-1 health. However, she made a very strong suggestion that we have a Plan B. Babies are known to defy their birth schedule and because we were so far away from the hospital, we should check out local hospitals just in case we had a schedule-defiant baby. I was alarmed. Don and I wanted to have this baby in an American hospital where we were sure we were going to be taken care of well.

We went home and despite our strong intention to have Kristy in the Baptist hospital in Kediri, we felt it would be wise to take the counsel of the good doctor, after all she knew babies better than we did.

Off to Brayat Minulya (In an Indonesian pedicab)

On a Sunday night, my waterbag broke. Were we thankful we took Dr. Jones’ advice! Off we went in a pedicab to Brayat Minulya Hospital in our city (This was an Indonesian hospital run by Dutch sisters. When Kristy was growing up and would be confused as to which was her right and left hands, we would attribute it to the confusion surrounding her birth – born of Filipino mother and American father and in a Dutch-run hospital in Indonesia!) On a beautiful Tuesday sunrise, our 8 lbs. 12 oz Kristy was born – beautiful and healthy. Mother and baby, waited on and pampered by a staff of Dutch sisters and Indonesian midwives, stayed 8 days in the hospital. And to think of all our concern about how we would give birth to this baby in a foreign country!

Two thousand years ago, An Angel's Announcement

²⁹ Mary was greatly troubled at his words and wondered what kind of greeting this might be. ³⁰ But the angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary; you have found favor with God. ³¹ You will conceive and give birth to a son, and you are to call him Jesus. ³² He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, ³³ and he will reign over Jacob’s descendants forever; his kingdom will never end.”  (Luke 1:29-33 NIV)

Off to Bethlehem (on a donkey)

A few months later, a teenaged unmarried mother-to-be riding on a donkey led by her fiancé, traveled miles to comply with a government requirement of a population census.  This was also going to be her first baby, but it was going to be a very special one. She knew from the start that this was no ordinary child. I can’t even imagine what thoughts she had as her life circumstances seemed to have gone out of her hand completely. She was pregnant though she had never known a man. Nine months along and here she was traveling to Bethlehem. (Present day airlines will not have allowed her on their plane!) Did she think of what lay ahead like most would-be mothers do? What kind of a baby is this? Then, they couldn’t find an inn where they could lodge. (I would have had an intense discussion with Don. “What do you mean ‘I can’t make any motel reservation’?” and “did you check out the hospitals on the route to Bethlehem, just in case. . .?”) And as baby Jesus was born in a manger, I wonder, how Mary must have felt. This baby is the Son of God, could God have not found better accommodations for His Son?

Only God could put together a scenario such as this. And for what reason? I don’t know. I have my opinion, but it really doesn’t matter.

In a nutshell, the life of this One, born in a manger, is told by Dr. James Allan Francis in the following poem written during the early 1900’s.

One Solitary Life

He was born in an obscure village, the child of a peasant woman. Until He was thirty, He worked in a carpenter shop and then for three years He was an itinerant preacher. He wrote no books. He held no office. He never owned a home. He was never in a big city.

He never traveled two hundred miles from the place He was born. He never did any of the things that usually accompany greatness. The authorities condemned His teachings. His friends deserted Him. One betrayed Him to His enemies for a paltry sum. One denied Him. He went through the mockery of a trial. 

He was nailed on a cross between two thieves. While He was dying, His executioners gambled for the only piece of property He owned on earth: His coat. When He was dead He was taken down and placed in a borrowed grave. 

Nineteen centuries have come and gone, yet today He is the crowning glory of the human race, the adored leader of hundreds of millions of the earth's inhabitants. 

All the armies that ever marched and all the navies that were ever assembled and all the parliaments that ever sat and all the rulers that ever reigned – combined - have not affected the life of man upon this earth so profoundly as that One Solitary Life. [1]

Years ago, I chose to follow this Son of God, who has made a world of difference in my life. Have you ever thought of what you would do with Jesus? You see, He is either the Son of God as He claims or the biggest liar or raving lunatic. Ever thought of that? A penny for your thought this Christmas day.

















[1] Accessed on the Internet at www.konig.org on December 24, 2013

The "Why" Question

                                              Beautiful Palompon, Leyte

The last few days have been very difficult.  The pictures of Haiyan’s deadly assault on the Philippines haunt me. 

"God must have been somewhere else. Or that he forgot that there is a planet called Earth," said Rodrigo Duterte, Mayor of Davao City, as he brought medical aid to Tacloban, the city hardest  hit by the typhoon.

Speaking to reporters, Mayor Duterte said the people of Tacloban "have no electricity, no food, no water, all their dead are on the streets, the survivors are looking up at the heavens." . . .

"There is no local government functioning. Those that they depend on - the police, the army, and even the social workers of the government - all of them are victims, all of them are dead. Even the police and the army there are dead," he said.[1]

At night as I lay in my comfortable bed, snuggled under warm blankets, I see pictures of those sleeping on the wet streets littered with what remained of what used to be homes and proud city buildings. In the mornings, I make breakfast of freshly toasted multigrain bread spread with cream cheese accompanied by crisp bacon slices and hot newly brewed coffee.  I hear the cries of “We’re hungry.  We have not eaten in three days.” I dine at a fine restaurant, and I ask myself, "Is it right for me to do this?"

      Some friends we met in Palompon

Don and I went to Palompon, Leyte in 2009.  We were there to see a close friend from college days who later was my co-teacher in Mindanao for over four years.  As she retired from her teaching career, she opened a student Center in her home for young high school and college students.  She has been inviting Don and me to join her in ministry in the Center.  As we prayed and considered Palompon as a possible place of service,
we spent a week checking it out and trying to find out how we could fit in.  We met wonderful new friends - students working hard at getting an education to help them have a better future, volunteers and staff giving of their time and energies to help young people prepare for more effective and productive lives.  Then there was a new friend who took care of our meals so wonderfully and made sure we always had good hot coffee when we
wanted it.  We found out we shared a common love for coffee.  In the last few days we tried to find out what has become of them.  We found out that Palompon was probably the second hardest hit city by the typhoon.  Finally, a friend from Iloilo sent me a message.  My old college friend was safe, but that’s all she could tell us. 

I don’t want to ask “Why, Lord?”  I keep telling myself, “God is sovereign."  I may not understand this, but I trust His heart, and His heart is nothing but good.  He has His reasons, known only to Him.  I get reminded of my Facebook posting two years ago.                                  

 Whenever one begins a question with "why," he should realize that the answer must necessarily be theological, not scientific. Science can deal with the questions of "what" and "how," sometimes even with "where" and "when," but never with "why"! The "why" questions have to do with motives and purposes, even when dealing with natural phenomena. ("Why does the earth rotate on its axis?" "Why do we have mosquitoes?") Even though we can partially explain such things by secondary causes, we finally encounter a "first cause," and then the "why?" can be answered only by God.[2]

 

 

---

[1] ABS-CBNnews.com posted at 11/12/2013 12:56 pm accessed 11/17/2013 

[2] http://www.icr.org/icr-devotionals/"Days of Praise" accessed 8/14/2011

 

FOR WANT OF A CLOTHESLINE

Remember this old children’s nursery rhyme?

For want of a nail the shoe was lost.
For want of a shoe the horse was lost.
For want of a horse the rider was lost.
For want of a rider the battle was lost.
For want of a battle the kingdom was lost.
And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.

On a Basement Stairway, Queens, New York. 1981

 “I’m afraid we don’t have that option,” Don’s voice was firm but gentle as he responded to my quiet ranting. I was angry and I was hurt. I felt ignored and insignificant. We were seated on the bottom step of the stairway, arguing quietly trying not to be heard by my sisters.

 “But you don’t love me anymore. You’ve been ignoring me. How many times have I asked you to put in a new clothesline? I work so hard. I wash the clothes, I cook, I clean house and take care of the children and all I ask is for you to put in a new clothesline, and you’ve been ignoring me,” my voice was beginning to rise a few decibels. ”We might as well part ways.”

I was asking for a divorce over a clothesline! And I was dead serious. I felt his refusal to do as I have asked was a symptom of a deeper problem – he didn’t care for me anymore.

We’ve just been back a few months from a 3-1/2 year missionary term in Indonesia. For various reasons we had to come home a half year earlier than what our first term should have been. Don had a health problem that the local doctors couldn’t diagnose and they wanted to do exploratory surgery. We were advised by our Board to come home. My father died two years earlier and my mother seemed to have given up on life. My sisters felt that our coming home with the grandchildren would help her get over her grief. We left Indonesia with every intention to go back, but soon we found out we couldn’t. We were at a loss. We thought missionary work in Indonesia was going to be our lifework. We were completely clueless as to what we were to do. Don’s health issue hadn’t been resolved. We were without jobs, home, car or money and we had two little toddlers to take care of. My sisters were very generous in trying to help us get on our feet. We were living with them temporarily. We knew God would
take care of us, but we felt so uncertain about the future. Don and I have always had a strong relationship through the many stresses of the early days of marriage and adjustments. On the second year of our marriage, we left for Indonesia and together we learned to adjust to the Indonesian culture, learned the language, and grew into a ministry among various groups of the society that we found ourselves in. We were constantly learning and adjusting to each other, to our new environment and later on, to parenthood. Being an interracial marriage had its built-in problems, too. But no matter how difficult our circumstances were, the “D” word was never uttered between us. We never thought of divorce as a solution to even the most difficult crisis we’ve faced together. But strangely, on this particular day, seven years into our marriage, I was bringing it up – because Don hadn’t put in a new clothesline for me!

Missing Nails, Losing Relationships

Most marriages break up over money, some because of meddlesome in-laws. But it is amazing how relationships break up over some of the most petty things. Sometimes the smaller issues lead to bigger ones, or the accumulation of the smaller complaints eventually become insurmountable bigger crises.

 “I can no longer take his horrible snoring,” said one wife I know who keeps a separate bed and bedroom from her husband.

I once listened to a young girl narrating a litany of complaints about her former husband which included the fact that he never folded, hung, or put away clothes after washing and drying them.  

Sometimes it is not a marriage, but a friendship, or a family relationship that breaks up because of hurting words said in an unguarded moment. Then pride gets in the way of resolving the problem. Sometimes it’s stuff like – “We were not invited to their daughter’s wedding!” This last one actually happened to us.  Our friends had moved and never gave us their new address!

14,235 Days Later

Every now and then I look back to that scene on the basement stairway and smile to myself. How silly could I get! I was ready to throw away a 7-year marriage over a clothesline. I am thankful that Don very gently, but determinedly reminded me that our commitment to each other was for a lifetime. That made a lot of difference. Through the years we’ve grown together (and not just in girth!). I believe we have come to understand each other better, and have a greater appreciation for each other. In a few days, we will be celebrating our 39th wedding anniversary. I think I’ll keep him. He is a good man, a Godly man. And oh, yes, there was a deeper problem about his not putting in a new clothesline. It is the same reason he does not like IKEA. He is not a handyman. When God passed out that talent, he was absent.

Happy anniversary, Don. It has been a good ride with you – two wonderful children, much-loved son and daughter-in-law, five awesome grandchildren; three countries and 3 states of residence; 468 months; 14,235 days; 341,640 hours. I pray that there may be many more with you.

A Continuing Love Affair

Forty-four years ago on this day, October 12fth, the Northwest plane carrying my

parents, my sister Ruth and I landed at the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport. Looking out my window I was full of mixed emotions. What will this new adventure mean? Where will it lead to? We were leaving the country of our birth and where we were raised, coming into a country that  we have only heard and read so much about.

Seattle-Tacoma International Airport

As we got into the terminal we followed the crowd and got in line with some folks waiting for their turn at the immigration desk.

“Returning residents and American citizens, please follow me,” an official-sounding lady announced.

My father stepped out of line and we followed him. He was an American citizen and returning resident. There was no line at all for us. We were processed through and off we went to our gate for the connecting flight to San Francisco.

On the way a couple of very nice looking young men stopped Ruth and me to ask where Gate #26 was. In response, we giggled, “Sorry, but we don’t know. We’re new here.” They thanked us nonetheless and went on their way. Ruth and I felt good. Did we really blend that well with our new environment? Huhm.

It was a very short flight to San Francisco. Ruth and I made like we were really seasoned travelers. The truth of the matter was, this was our first flight outside of the Philippines. We were very much impressed with most everything we had experienced so far. Soon we were landing. Another peek through our window, but we couldn’t see anything but the runway and airport personnel scurrying to and fro. We could also see those little vehicles that shuttle between the terminal and different spots on the tarmac. In a few minutes we were deplaning and then into those passenger tubes that led to the gates of the terminals.

They were all there – my sisters Lu and Josephine, and her husband and little Ariel and Sarah Jane. We hadn’t seen each other since they left the Philippines about four years ago. There was a lot of kissing and hugging and excitement. What a tremendous reunion!

A Victorian Flat

The car ride from the airport must have taken no more than 25 minutes. So this was what a freeway was like. Everyone was going the same direction and there were no traffic lights. Then we took an exit and ended on a street. My brother-in-law, who was driving, made some turns and soon we were on Church Street.

“There, “ Lu says, “is our flat.” She had to explain to us how a “flat” was different from an apartment.

We walked in and I was impressed. Nice wall-to-wall carpeting and French doors, too. The dining table had all kinds of fruit in a tray – great big red apples, grapes, pears and oranges. Wow, we only had those in the Philippines during Christmas time. They were so expensive there that we had them only for special occasions.

As could be expected, there was a lot of catching up to do, and a lot of stories to tell. At the end of the day my sisters told us they were giving us a special treat the following day. They were taking us to a popular restaurant for lunch. And so, our first day in the United States concluded with thoughts of exciting experiences that would come with tomorrow.

A Very Special Restaurant


It was with much anticipation that we all piled into my sister’s car that would take us to the very special restaurant on Mission St. that she promised us. She pulled into the parking lot and led us into the restaurant. There was a tall pillar with the sculpture of a dog’s head. Why, in the world do they have that statue there? “Doggie Diner” the sign said.

Ruth and I were looking very puzzled but we kept quiet. Lu and Josephine were now laughing. Lu announced, “Welcome to Doggie Diner, a famous American institution!” This was our first American hotdog experience. Thus, was our introduction to life in these beautiful United States.



Into the American Way of Life
    
There were many things to learn. How to ride the buses. Yes, you just drop your coins into the coin boxes. There are no “conductors” like our buses in the Philippines would have. No inspectors to check your tickets. There are designated bus stops. You can’t just yell out “Para” (“stop” in Tagalog) to get off. You don’t go jaywalking either. The streets were not noisy with honking horns like in Manila. Horns are used sparingly. Grocery stores are mostly self-served. You pick your purchases, put them in your cart and check them out at the cashier’s. And do not try to sample the fruits or any other products like the way you do in Philippine markets. Definitely do NOT.  

Americans have strange ways. If they don’t know your name, they will call you “dear” or “honey.” And little children call older folks by their first names. And on and on the learning went. Some lessons were plain to see, but others were more subtle.

The First Job

Two weeks later, my sisters thought it was time for Ruth and me to look for work. Josephine took me to ABAR Employment agency on Market St. I must have looked ridiculous. “Fresh off the boat” must have been written all over me. San Francisco was into the first days of Indian summer and there I was with my faux wool dress-length coat! (This we bought at a second-hand store in Pasay City in the Philippines a few weeks before we left.) We talked to a very nice lady, Dorothy, who told us that she would try to place me and that I would not have to pay any fee. My future employer would pay for it. She gave me a series of what they called “Wonderlit” tests that evaluated language and Math skills. Then she gave me a typing test which I failed miserably. Dorothy told me to practice typing and if I didn’t have a typewriter, I could rent one, practice for two weeks then go back to the agency. I did as she said and she tested me again. This time I passed. I could hear her call a few places and then minutes later, she told me I had an appointment at an insurance company for a job as a rater.

I went to the office of the Yosemite Insurance Company at 726 Market Street. The personnel director took me to the office of the Supervisor of the Underwriting/Rating Department and introduced me. As I sat at his desk the Supervisor told me what the company was about and what my responsibilities would be if hired. He asked me a few questions, and tested me with the “Wonderlit” tests I had been given at the agency. After about 20 minutes the interview was over. I went back to ABAR to wait for the result. Dorothy called the Supervisor to ask for his decision. As I listened, I knew I had the job.

 “Didn’t I tell you, didn’t I tell you?” I heard Dorothy excitedly say, “And she does not even have an accent!

I had and still do have my Philippines accent, but I don’t think Dorothy heard it because she was such a nice and kind lady. She knew I needed a job and she was determined to help me.

And thus began my adventure in this adopted country, and a love relationship that started with stories from my father and continues to the present day – 44 years later.

A VIGNETTE

 I was alone in a little room where the office supervisor had led me. I sat at the word processor, earphones on, attempting to transcribe the tape freshly handed to me ten minutes earlier by the neurologist. I thought I heard the tape say something about alpha waves, theta waves, delta waves and a general slowing of brain activity, etc. I tried very hard to catch every word as I carefully typed it. I kept pressing on the repeat pedal of the transcriber, making sure I heard the words accurately. I was nervous and had a difficult time keeping my fingers on the right keys. It did not help that a young resident doctor behind me was pacing the floor. As I loaded the tape on the transcriber, he very kindly told me not to mind his presence, take time and just do what I could to give an accurate transcript.

This was my first day at the Department of Neurology of a University Hospital in
Ohio. I was working as a Kelly Girl at various offices and this was my second assignment with the company. What possessed Kelly Girl to give me a medical transcription job, I would not understand. But I needed a job. Though I had never had transcribing experience, didn’t know medical terms except what I have heard from doctors on my own personal visits to them, I bravely took on the assignment. We needed the money desperately. I did know the difference between an EKG (electrocardiogram) and EEG (electroencephalogram), but I was definitely unqualified to transcribe an EEG reading, nor any kind of medical reading for that matter. As I sat waiting for the audio tape, I remember trying hard to remember the parts of the human body that I learned from Zoology 1 in college, focusing intently on the brain area. There were very few that I could remember. Words like the lobes of the brain, cranium, occipital, and frontal came to mind, but not much more.

I tried to ignore the sound of the resident doctor’s pacing, but it was difficult. He had explained to me that this EEG reading belonged to a young man who was shot and was fighting for his life. It would tell the doctors whether his brain waves showed life or not and with this result, the family would have to make a life and death decision. I wondered if this doctor knew that I was a complete novice at this.

After about half an hour of this excruciating ordeal, I handed the printed transcript to the doctor, who rushed it to the neurologist in charge, who in turn read it carefully and went off to the patient’s room.

At the end of my day, I trudged off to the bus stop and boarded my bus, ready for my 15-minute ride home. I was completely discouraged and exhausted physically. When Don came home from school, I told him how I felt so inadequate for my job which was supposed to be for three months. I told him that if things didn’t get better, I would just have to quit. I didn’t think I could do a good job of it. As usual, Don was very understanding and left it to me to decide what was the right thing to do.

It was with much trepidation that I returned to the hospital the following day, prepared for whatever consequences awaited me. That was a horrible job of medical transcription I did the day before. A few minutes after I arrived, the Department Manager appeared at my door. This was the boss of the office manager who assigned me the job the day before.

“Raquel, would you be interested in a permanent position with us?” she asked.

I was dumbfounded. I thought I heard her offering me a permanent position, but all I could say was, ”I beg your pardon?” as if I didn’t understand what was said.

“I said, ‘would you be interested in working with us permanently,’’ she repeated.

“Why, yes, of course, yes,” was all I could say.

“OK, then,“she said with some finality, “We’ll have to keep you as a Kelly Girl for three months because that’s their rule. Then we will change you to permanent personnel. Congratulations.”

I couldn’t understand what had happened. I was so confused and thrilled at the same time that when I got to the bus stop that afternoon, I boarded the first bus that was there, not realizing that it was going the opposite direction from my home!

To this day, I don’t understand what happened. I don’t think I was hired because of my abilities or any other logical reason. I hear people talk about “God things.” I believe it was that – a God thing!

RIDING THE 8X MUNI

A Muni Bus Stop

Walking up Bryant Street, I got to where it came to 6th Street where I made my turn for the one-block walk to the bus stop. The little bus stop was not there when I used to work at the Hall of Justice some 20 years ago. But there it was complete with digital readings that inform riders of the bus schedules. It said the 8X to Bayshore & City College was arriving in 7 minutes. Soon there were three of us waiting for this bus and a Muni Inspector and a driver who would take his shift from the driver of the oncoming bus. I fingered my 3 quarters in the pocket of my jeans, making sure they were there. It only costs 75 cents for seniors fare.

My 8X Muni Bus

Not bad, I see the 8X coming to the stop almost to the minute of the schedule. Soon it crossed 6th Street and pulled over to the curb. It was packed. It stopped a ways from where I stood, and the last of its three doors opened to let me in. However, not knowing the bus riding drill, I ran to the front door and got on the steps. The Muni Inspector yelled at me. “Wait.” She wanted me to let the replacement driver on first. I obediently got off the bus. I followed the driver back on the bus. He yells at me, “Board through the back door.” My goodness, don’t these people know how to talk normal? Just because I have lots of gray hair does not mean I couldn’t hear them without their yelling. So, again, I got off, went to the back door and squeezed my little body in between the other bodies packed in there like as they say, sardines.

 

The bus lumbers on to the Harrison Street freeway on ramp. In between bodies, I stick my hand out to one of the poles that had a few others hanging on to it. My short arms couldn’t reach up to the hanging straps. In about 10 minutes we got off the freeway and on to San Bruno and Felton. San Bruno has become sort of – Chinatown
extension with Asian grocery stores, produce stores, bake shops and restaurants. We made a left turn and the bus pulls alongside the curb. Passengers get off. I made a quick look to see if there were any seats vacated. Aha! A senior seat. I plop down on it and my feet dangled a few inches off the floor. I’m 5-foot tall and there are not many of those inches in my legs, so my feet tend to dangle from these Muni seats.  

When you’re a senior citizen, you can get away with some things like staring. I am a nosy one, so I look at the passengers. I visually examine the plastic grocery bags they carry. You know, those ones that you get mostly from Asian stores. This way I find out what they have just purchased, or what would be for dinner tonight. I see a young college student gripping the handle of her suitcase. I wonder, is she going home to San Francisco or is she coming back to school from another state? Sometimes I make up stories in my head. There’s an old Chinese couple arguing. I don’t understand a word of what’s being said, but I think the wife is getting the better of the argument. Their stop was Bayshore and Arleta. He got off first leaving her behind, way behind.

The bus made a right turn onto Sunnydale and a few more passengers got on. A young Asian mother with a cute, little boy no more than 5 years old, sat two seats away from me. The little boy sat next to an old Asian man, possibly in his 70’s. He looked at the old man and smiled at him. The old man smiled back. Then the boy put his hand in his pocket, fumbled with something and pulled out a piece of candy which he offered to the old man. The old man smiled and held up his hand as if to say “No, thank you.” The little boy smiled again and held the candy closer to the old man’s face. He would not take a “no.” Finally, the man took the candy, unwrapped it and put it in his mouth. The boy and the old man smiled at each other. And that was that.  

I was prepared to dislike having to take the bus. That was three months ago. It had been awhile since I’ve taken public transportation in the City. I have now become somewhat of an old pro at it. When the driver drives the bus clear to the very front end of the bus stop, I know he wants me to go to the third door and board there. I then get on, wriggle my little body in between other bodies to find a pole I can hang onto. I’ve also learned to spray a little perfume on me before I leave for the bus stop. This way, I have a more pleasant scent to make the journey home with. I’ve also met some very friendly people. They are regular riders and they now recognize me when I get on. More often than not, my gray hair would get me a seat. I become witness to everyday dramas of life. There was a handsome black man in his thirties talking on the phone to his wife, who wanted to buy a car. He asked her all kinds of questions. I admired his patience and tact as he tried to make sure she didn’t buy the car just because “it looked nice.” Then there was a young lady who gave me her seat soon as I got on. I thanked her profusely. She said, “I’m close to my stop, anyway.” I watched her but she just hung on to the strap. After awhile someone got off and she got a seat. Then a couple of European tourists got on. Again, she offered her seat to the wife. Soon the passenger next to me got off; the young lady took his seat. I told her how gracious she was, having given up her seat twice. “Oh, that was quite ok with me.” Then we got to talking. She told me where she lived and how fortunate she and her husband were to find affordable housing in the city. They were fresh immigrants. We both got off at the same bus stop. She lived half a block away from me. 

Taking the 8X bus has been quite interesting. People continue to interest me.  I don't think there is anything more fascinating in the whole creation than people.  Oh, yes, I’ve seen and met some crummy people, too.  They are more difficult to write about.